Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Within moments, two footmen were carrying William through the door and up the stairs, attracting a stream of shocked house slaves. Emily followed behind, half-supporting her mother, who was blinded by a torrent of anxious tears. She hardly knew which of her own emotions to allow to the forefront—anger that hadn’t yet abated, terror at her father’s unknown condition, or a spiteful sense that William had finally received a well-deserved comeuppance.

  The footmen laid William on his bed just as Deena pushed through the cluster of gawkers. “Get along, now. You all got work to do.” To drive home her point, she began barking orders. “Celia, set Josephine to boilin’ water. May, fetch up some clean rags. Ben, Apollo, stick close. We be needin’ you if he starts thrashin’.”

  But the fight had drained out of William. He lay in an unresponsive stupor.

  Marie perched on the edge of his mattress and took his face in both her hands. “William. William, look at me.”

  His eyes rolled in her direction and fixed on her face. Whether it was purposeful or simply reflexive, Emily didn’t know, but her mother seemed to gain hope from his response. She continued stroking his cheeks. “Stay with me, William. Just hold on until the doctor gets here. He’ll set you to rights.”

  Emily wasn’t so certain. William’s eyes were glazed, and the flesh drooped off one half of his face. While the sight roused her pity, she still warred with bitterness. She stayed on the far side of the room, keeping vigil in silence.

  Ida knocked hesitantly and poked her head into the room. “I just heard what happened. May I help?”

  “Ida, please come in.” Marie seemed to gain strength as her friend pulled up a chair beside her. “Has anyone told Margaret?”

  “She’s retired to her bed. The long ride provoked her rheumatism. I’ve asked your staff that she not be disturbed.”

  “Thank you.”

  The women spoke together softly. It seemed an age before Deena barged into the room with the doctor in tow. It wasn’t Dr. Malone, who was much too far away in Charleston, but an ancient, wizened little man who cared for the family during their months at Ella Wood.

  “Dr. Wainwright!” Marie exclaimed, relinquishing her place at the bedside. “Thank God you’ve arrived.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Preston.” He tottered over to observe his patient and frowned at the sight of William’s distorted face. “Tell me, has your husband experienced any strenuous exertion recently? Or perhaps a display of heightened passions—joy, fear, loss, anger?”

  “Yes.” Marie wrung her hands together. “Our daughter just arrived home, and she and William had a rather sharp disagreement. I’m afraid I provoked him further by taking her side.”

  The doctor caught sight of Emily and raised his eyebrows knowingly. “I see.”

  She sank into a hard-backed chair as shame inserted itself into the torrent of her emotions.

  He turned back to Marie. “And would this be when you received that magnificent bruise on your cheek?”

  Marie covered the tender area and nodded in embarrassment.

  “Yes, yes. It all fits.” He began rummaging in his leather bag. “I’m afraid Mr. Preston has suffered a fit of apoplexy. It’s quite obvious from the paralysis evident on the right side of his face. We don’t understand all the physiological effects, but there seems to be a correlation between the brain and the fullness of the blood that can be alleviated by reducing pressure within the veins.” He pulled out a lancet and a length of cloth. “I’m going to perform a venesection. Deena, would you locate a pan suitable for the collection of blood?”

  Deena delegated the task to one of the footmen in attendance outside the door, and a tin bowl was soon handed inside.

  “Mrs. Preston, it might be advisable for you to retreat to the far side of the room with your daughter.”

  But Marie wouldn’t be moved from her husband’s side. She grasped Ida’s hand. “We’ve both attended bloodlettings before, doctor.”

  “Very well.”

  Emily watched as the doctor rolled up William’s sleeve and tied the cloth strip tightly above the bend of his elbow. He then positioned the arm over the bowl and, thumbing a protruding vein, pushed in the lancet. The flow began immediately, thick and scarlet. Its coppery smell soon reached Emily’s nostrils.

  Venesection was a process she had witnessed often in the military hospital at the beginning of the war, but the practice was falling out of favor among surgeons who had seen its lack of effect on a grand scale. It often killed soldiers who had lost too much blood already. As there were no new treatments to replace it, however, bloodletting continued, especially among the older generation of doctors. Emily suddenly wished Dr. Malone was present.

  When the pan was full, Dr. Wainwright staunched the wound and bandaged it tightly. Emily could see no change in her father’s condition.

  “Will he recover?” Marie’s fingers had worried the lace on her bodice into a shapeless tatter.

  The doctor wiped off the point of his lancet and returned it to his bag along with the tourniquet. “At this point, I cannot say. William is a strong man, not yet fifty, and he hasn’t the thickness about the middle so common among men of his position. It is entirely possible that he will regain his faculties. In the meantime, you must keep him quiet. A calm, moderate lifestyle is one he must undertake from now on if he is to prevent another attack.”

  Emily grimaced. Lately, her father hadn’t been known for calmness or moderation.

  “Was it William’s temper that brought on the episode?” Marie asked.

  “It was likely the final contributing factor. Your husband has been under a great deal of stress. He’s suffered the death of one child, the estrangement of another, and sudden unemployment, all in quick succession. Such a combination would be enough to affect any man.”

  The doctor rummaged once more in his bag. “Exercise restraint in your husband’s diet; no rich foods and temperance in drink. Avoid restrictive clothing, particularly about the neck. And no venereal activity. When he is recovered enough to take some exercise, it must be done in moderation. Above all, it is imperative that your husband remain calm. Remove any stimulation that might provoke a heightened response.” He handed her a packet of powders. “If he should become excited, administer one of these doses in a glass of water. But it is better to avoid excesses altogether. A second attack could kill him.”

  Marie took the medicine gravely. “I’ll see to it, doctor.”

  “Very well.” He collected his belongings. “That is all I can do for you at the moment.”

  While Marie escorted the doctor from the room, Emily approached the bed hesitantly. Her anger had faded, replaced by a languid disquiet. William no longer looked like an ogre but like a weakened version of the man she once adored. He was still awake and unresponsive. She took a step nearer and reached out a hand to touch his arm, but Ida stopped her.

  “You shouldn’t, Emily. If he would regain his senses, you’re the one most likely to provoke a negative response.”

  Emily drew back, aghast. Could her presence really cause her father injury? Even death? Pushing past, she fled to her room with guilt now adding to the confusion of her thoughts.

  Deena hustled behind her, closing the bedroom door and crossing her arms in reproof. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Don’t be doin’ dis to yo’self, baby girl.”

  Emily cringed at the woman’s uncanny ability to read her mind. “Doing what, Deena?”

  “Don’ think fo’ a moment you be de cause o’ yo’ daddy’s fit. Yo’ daddy make his own troubles. Leastwise, he make ’em worse.”

  “But it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t come home.”

  “Nonsense. Yo’ daddy been short-tempered wid everyone. It bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “So it’s not just me?”

  “He like a bear wid a toothache all year. Leas’ now yo’ mama won’t be grievin’ fo’ you no mo’.”

  Deena’s words slowed the torrent of emotion. “You think I did right to com
e home?”

  “I know it.” A broad smile wreathed the ancient face, and she enveloped Emily in a fleshy embrace. “Land sakes, chil’!” She grabbed Emily by both hands, appraising her critically. “You skinny as a plucked hen. Let me fin’ you somethin’ to eat.”

  “Deena, you needn’t fuss over me,” Emily scolded. “Especially at your age.”

  “Now don’ you try to put me out to pasture, Miss Emily. Nex’ step be de grave, an’ I ain’t ready fo’ dat yet.” To prove her point, she whirled around the room with the vigor of a younger woman, plumping pillows and straightening the drapes.

  “I’ve brought you more help. Do you think you can find places for all our Charleston people?”

  “Dere jus’ be five, Miss Emily—Mrs. Thornton’s people, Tandey, and Betsy.”

  “The wagon still hasn’t arrived?”

  “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout no wagon.”

  Emily frowned and pulled down the covers on her bed. “I’ll speak to Zeke about it in the morning. I’m too tired right now.”

  Despite Emily’s protests, Deena fetched soap and water. Half an hour later, free of the grime of travel, Emily had just changed into a sleeveless nightgown when Marie knocked softly on her bedroom door. “Are you still awake?”

  “Come in, Mother.” She sprawled across the top of her bed.

  Marie entered quietly. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything before you retire.”

  “Not a chance. Deena’s been fussing over me like a mother hen.”

  Marie smiled and brushed the hair off Emily’s forehead. “It’s good to have you home.”

  “I’m sorry I brought so many mouths with me.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “But can you feed us all? Has the army been here?”

  “Twice. They took most of the stock and the rest of last year’s rice harvest. With shipping so unpredictable, your father decided to convert most fields to corn, potatoes, wheat, or chickpeas. We’ve hidden a great deal.” Marie hesitated, shifting her attention to a stain on the pillow sham. “Emily, they took the horses.”

  Emily leaped upward. “Chantilly?”

  “Not Chantilly.” Marie eased onto the edge of the bed. “Your father managed to use his name and connections to save her.”

  Emily froze. “He did that for me?”

  “Lune is safe, too. He was still comparatively young the last time they came.”

  Emily’s eyes filled with tears. All their beautiful, noble Thoroughbreds. Dead, most likely. Horses made large targets on the battlefield.

  “Your father really does love you.” Lines etched themselves more deeply across her mother’s face. “He’s just been under a great deal of stress. When Governor Pickens was removed from office last winter… Well, your father feels he’s been unfairly branded by their close association. He lost his position, as well.”

  Marie always did make excuses.

  “You can imagine how difficult it’s been for him to have his leadership politely declined by the new administration.”

  No, William wouldn’t tolerate being set aside. “What’s he been doing with his extra time?”

  “Tinkering. Writing letters. Driving everyone to distraction.” Marie sighed. “And he and Walter Cutler have shared more than a few bottles since…”

  Emily flinched at the reminder. Jovie’s disappearance was still too raw. Too fresh.

  “Give your father some time. He’ll remember how much you mean to him.” Marie cupped a hand around her daughter’s cheek and kissed the top of her head. Then she paused to drink in one last look before arranging the mosquito netting around the bed and blowing out the candle. “Get some rest.”

  The door clicked shut and silence filled the darkness. There was no one left to be strong for. No one frightened or ill. For the first time since she had left Aunt Margaret’s house, Emily found herself utterly alone.

  Pain came in torrents then, gushing through her unstoppered defenses. Jovie. Missing in action. Had the letter only arrived that morning? Her grief felt as old as the world.

  A memory came back to her, an incident she hadn’t though of in at least three years. She and Sofia had been sitting on the back patio at Fairview a few weeks before Sophia’s wedding, she reading a copy of Longfellow given to her by her Uncle Isaac while Sophia penned invitations and gushed about her fortunate match. When Sophia popped inside for something or another, Jovie had appeared in her seat holding a single white daisy.

  “Hi, Emily.”

  She looked up, slightly annoyed at the interruption, and gave him a tight smile. He and Jack had arrived home from their first year of college only days before, and she wasn’t overjoyed to see either of them.

  “I was walking in the garden. I brought you something.” He held up the flower. “Did you know a white daisy is a symbol of purity and loyalty?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  He inhaled the flower’s fragrance then held it out to her. “I want you to have it.” He’d smiled, and even then she’d noticed the brilliant green of his eyes.

  She took it uncertainly, with a quick check for bees or stinging nettles. “Um, thank you?”

  After he’d gone, she left the daisy on the patio table and joined Sophia inside, but when she went home that afternoon, she found it folded into the center of her book. It was a peace offering of sorts. A turning away from his youthful pranks. She realized now that he’d loved her even then.

  She curled onto her side, bowed by the agony of loss. Perhaps it was Fairview’s close proximity that prompted the memory. Wherever it came from, she clung to it tightly, desperate for any little piece of Jovie she might hold and scolding herself for not keeping the flower.

  Relief came much later, after she’d soaked her pillow through and slid at last into oblivion, lulled by the distant lullaby of artillery.

  ***

  Emily rose early the next morning feeling frail and fatigued. It would have been so easy to slip back inside the cocoon of nothingness, to succumb to sorrow, but her aunt and her mother would need her strength. She would shore up her emotions. Her mourning must be done in secret.

  Forcing aside the listlessness that dragged her back toward slumber, she slipped on a long-sleeved riding habit and a veiled hat to discourage the mosquitos that swarmed mercilessly over the lowlands. For as long as she could remember, her family had repaired to the seashore for the pestilential months. This summer the war left them no choice but to remain on the plantation. Emily’s own homecoming was unexpected, but it wasn’t entirely without pleasure. She was anticipating an early ride on Chantilly before the heat grew unbearable. But first, a more pressing task awaited.

  The graveyard loomed ghostly and insubstantial in the morning mist. Bracketed by an iron fence entwined with spent honeysuckle vines, the tombstones huddled like a miserable lot of mourners beneath a canopy of crepe myrtle. Even the distant barrage seemed more hushed here. Emily passed through the gate with its long, keening cry and paused beside a mound of earth that hadn’t yet settled into flat acceptance.

  A new wave of sadness washed over her, gentle and mellow. She hadn’t been able to say good-bye to Jack after her father had arrived to take his body home from the military hospital last September. And the weeks that followed had been so dark, so full of tangled emotions after Thad’s betrayal, that she had struggled to come to terms with Jack’s death.

  Dropping to her knees, she splayed her fingers in the vegetation that already grew thick above his grave. “I guess you knew I’d make it back here someday, didn’t you?” She aimed her speech at the headstone, trying not to think of Jack’s body cold and lifeless in the ground. “I had to come. But I keep thinking about the task you charged me with the night you died.”

  She settled onto her seat and criss-crossed her legs. “I don’t know if I can do it, Jack. I never wanted Ella Wood. I have no idea how to manage an estate so large, and I certainly don’t know how to set two hundred slaves free.” She paus
ed ruefully. “Of course it won’t become my responsibility until Father passes. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t wish him dead.”

  She ran her fingers through the grass, plucked a single blade, and wrapped it around her fingertip. “He, uh, wasn’t very pleased to see me. Things got a little heated and…he’s not doing so well.” She clenched her fist, snapping the blade in half. “But I really don’t know what I could have done differently.”

  Discarding the shattered stem, she pulled her knees up to her chest and locked her elbows around them. “Thank you for telling me about Jeremiah. It was a shock, finding out our father sired a son with a slave woman. I was resentful. Of Father. Of Jeremiah. But I think you saw how much he and I would need each other. You always were looking out for me, even when I couldn’t see it.”

  Tears formed, and she let them linger on her lashes. Her last years with Jack had been stormy, full of misunderstandings and adolescent arguments, but there had been good times. When they were children. Before the war.

  “I remember the first time you took me riding,” she mused. “It was my eighth birthday, the day Father gave me Chantilly. You led me all over the plantation, showing me the best climbing trees, your favorite place to catch tadpoles, the wild strawberry patch, and the honeybee tree.” She chuckled. “You probably lived to regret whatever rush of brotherly affection prompted you to do it, but that day cemented itself in my memory as one of the best in my childhood.”

  She was certain that, had the battlefield not stolen him from her, they could have recaptured that friendship. “We should have had more time—” Her voice cracked, and the weight of regret bowed her head toward the earth. It was several minutes before she could speak again. “I miss you, Jack. I sure wish you were here.”

  She sat on the grave, trying to pierce through the shadowy veil that separated them, until the sun climbed over the line of the horizon and washed the morning with alabaster light. She felt—cleaner. Settled somehow, as though Jack had heard and understood every word.